Everything
by Isabella1020
Summary: "I love you" she said. "I wish I didn't but I can't help it." Those were the words he'd been waiting a year to hear. Oneshot. Huddy. Takes place during Season Six Finale.


**Author's Note:** House-centric. Set during the last moments of _'Help Me'_ (Season Six Finale.)Huddy. I know Dai is probably going to hate me for writing this (XD) but I had to: those scenes were haunting me and I just needed to get this out of my system. I liked Season Six Finale a lot – it was about time for House to finally stop being miserable and start being, well, not miserable. (I'm not even saying happy, because that would be too much to ask for, don't you think?) I just hope you enjoy reading this. If not, feel free to throw a virtual tomato at me by clicking the review button and telling me about it.

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She told you she didn't love you.

She said she was gonna marry him.

She told you she was moving on.

She said all you did was making everyone miserable because you couldn't be happy.

She told you she was sick of making excuses for you.

She told you she was done.

"_What are you clinging to, House?"_

"_What do you have in your life?"_

She said you had nothing.

And even though her words shattered your heart to pieces, you pretended to ignore it and tried your best to focus on Hannah, the woman trapped under the rubble who needed you to save her life.

Hannah needed you. You were the one who discovered her – no one else had heard her cries for help – and she was alone down there, scared and injured, and she needed you.

But then even you did everything you could, even when you did exactly the right thing to do, even when you did what anyone else would have done, you failed to save her life, and she died.

She died anyways.

Back in that moment when you knew there was nothing you could do, it felt horribly, excruciatingly ironic.

It seemed like no matter what you did, who you listened to or which your intentions were, you were destined to fail, over, and over, and over again.

It wasn't just about Hannah. Her death hadn't been your fault – for once, you had done everything right - and besides, you were a doctor: you were used to lose patients.

What you couldn't get used to, however, was the fact that you'd spent a year trying your best to improve, trying your best to be a better person, trying your best to be normal, trying your best to listen to people and accept help when offered, trying your best not to be so damn stubborn, trying your best to care for the (few) people who cared for you, trying your best to follow good advices, trying your best to stay off drugs, and what had you received in return?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Everyone else was happy – or happier than you.

Everyone else was moving on.

Everyone else had someone.

You, instead, after a year of pain and hard work, were miserable.

You were stuck.

You had no one.

And there you were, back in your old apartment, taking the mirror off of the bathroom wall, throwing it away, grabbing the bottle of pills that had been hiding behind it, untouched for more than year, sitting on the floor against the bathtub and taking two pills out of the bottle.

It was Vicodin, of course.

The pills looked innocent as they laid on your open palm for a few seconds, while you weighted your options, considering whether you wanted or not to go back to insanity and throw away all the effort and the progress you'd made last year, making your life even more miserable if that was possible.

The choice was easy. Vicodin meant not feeling, and you were tired of feeling too much, you were tired of hurting.

But the moment you made the decision of taking the pills, something happened.

She was there, standing at the threshold of the bathroom, still wearing her field scrubs.

She didn't look scared or worried.

You had no idea what she was there for, but you just wanted her to go away, have her perfect little life and leave you alone so you could destroy yours beyond repair.

You asked her if Foreman had sent her and she said no.

The minute you started wondering what had possibly led her there, she mentioned his name and you feared the worst. You thought things would get even more horrible.

"Lucas…"

"Great. You're feeling uncomfortable again? Probably means you just got back from some quicky wedding in Vegas or you're already pregnant." You thought the idea would be too disgusting to even say it out loud, but somehow you managed to say it.

"I ended it."She interrupted dryly.

"What?" You looked up at her in awe.

"I'm stuck, House." The words fell off her lips slowly, as if they'd been hiding inside for too long and resisted to leave her mouth. "I keep trying to move forward, I keep trying to move on and I can't. My new house, my new fiancée and all I can think about is you."

You couldn't believe it. She'd practically kicked you out of her life hours ago. How could any of that be real?

"I just need to know if you and I can work."

It was all so strange. You simply couldn't believe it. You had to be dreaming, or hallucinating.

"You think I can fix myself?"You asked her, your voice threatening to tremble.

"I don't know."

"'Cause I'm the most screwed up person in the world."It sounded like an apology, pain written all over it. This time, it took all of your willpower for you not to fall apart right there and then. It was the truth, but no matter how pathetic, clichéd or melodramatic it sounded, it still hurt like Hell. All of your wounds were open, and bleeding, and they all hurt like Hell. Physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional pain you were in.

"I know."She paused, and then somehow the tiniest smile appeared on her lips. "I love you. I wish I didn't, but I can't help it."

Suddenly time seemed to stop.

You grabbed the hand she was reaching for support, stood up next to her and hesitated only for one second, the time it took for you to look right into her steel blue eyes and realize that she wasn't lying.

Somehow you knew she wasn't.

Acting automatically, you kissed her.

But very, very gently, as if you were moving in slow motion.

And she didn't walk away. She kissed you back.

Then the thought came to your mind that all which was happening was too good to be true.

"How do I know I'm not hallucinating?"You were so close that you could see your reflection in her eyes, and you were afraid any second you would wake up in a hospital bed, in a mental house, or even worse, you would never wake up. Maybe you were dead, after all. Maybe this was Heaven.

But she remained calm. "Well…" She started. "Did you take the Vicodin?"

You opened up your left hand. The pills were there, untouched.

You looked back at her, overwhelmed by the implications of that fact.

"I didn't."You answered, in shock.

The pills were in your hand, so she was real.

The pills were in your hand, so her words were real.

The pills were in your hand, so she loved you.

"Then we're okay."She whispered, glancing briefly at your lips before her eyes met your gaze.

"Yeah."You agreed, throwing the pills away, lacing her fingers with yours, and leaning closer to kiss her again.

Lisa Cuddy was there, she was real, her words were real, she loved you, and she was saving your life.

Hours earlier she'd said you had nothing and it had been entirely true.

But now she was there, with you, and she was your everything.


End file.
